


The Line of Duty

by LyricDreamweaver



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Anal Sex, But not too many feelings, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heavy BDSM, Klingon sex, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Torture, extreme dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 11:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13340340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricDreamweaver/pseuds/LyricDreamweaver
Summary: Elim Garak is not the Regent's type, but he will be made to validate every inch of space he takes up on the Klingon flagship.





	The Line of Duty

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest piece of violent erotic I've written so far. If you'd like to encourage my habits and fantasies about Elim Garak in chains, come scream directly into my IMs at borg-apoligist.tumblr.com.
> 
> Happy reading. <3 <3 <3

The Regent pulls on the chain, sending the Cardassian sprawling, just for amusement, just to be cruel. Garak raises his head, glaring but without speaking.   
"You think you could track her down," the Regent says, "but you have done nothing but try to talk your way out of this, _petaQ_."  
"Have I succeeded in changing your mind, allowing me just this great honour and taste of freedom?"   
The Regent laughs, wide shoulders shaking with his bellows, head tossed back. But Garak's blood runs cold, in spite of the temperature of the ship. He pulls on the chain again, wipes a single tear, and places his boot on Garak's hand, crushing bone.  
"Take him to my quarters," the Regent orders.   
The Regent hands Garak's chain off to his underling, some poor Klingon barely old enough to be serving the Regent. If he wanted, Garak could probably break his ribs and make a knife out of them.  
But here, on the bridge, it would be a useless attempt, so he follows, but only so he can bide his time.

* * *

Garak is chained again, this time in one spot. His wrists are bound to the ceiling of the Regent's quarters, his ankles to the floor. He's stripped from the waist up, bent just enough to display his back, the scales and ridges covering his body.  
The Regent licks his lips, though the Cardassian can't see it. He savours torture like a fine bottle of firewine, to be taken slowly and drawn out, making the burn last.  
The Regent is just as ruthless in private as he is in public. Garak's barely had time to recover from the brand applied to his cheek before the iron is placed just above his _chuva_ and that makes him scream like a child, thrashing and crying.  
"You are weak," the Regent explains. "Spineless. But we can either make you into a proper warrior or break you trying."  
Garak takes long, deep breaths, trying to find some way out of this, some way to slip free. If he could reach the knives and floggers laid out, he's contemplating interesting ways to use them on his Klingon tyrant.  
"Say something," the Regent demands, picking up a wickedly curved blade and pressing it against Garak's throat, just above the metal collar that always makes him feel like he's suffocating and threatening his ridges. The point draws a single drop of blood. "Say something. Or are you too spineless to say anything?"  
Garak spits in the Regent's face, just over his lips. He hisses, makes a show of baring his teeth.  
The Regent grabs Garak by the chin, hard enough to bruise, and grins. "I like your spirit, _gagh._ "  
"I think," Garak said, choosing carefully from his arsenal, "you're insulting me, Regent."  
"I am."   
He backhanded Garak, sending him reeling in his chains. He spat again, blood, on the floor.   
"Now, let's see how much warrior we can put in you."  
The Regent takes one of Garak's hands, sinking his teeth in as if the Cardassian were nothing more than a fruit or a piece of meat, something to be consumed. And the nerves in Garak's hand burn, alive and raw.  
And the chains rattle as they drop, but the torture has drained him of a will to fight. His face is wet, body bruised, and he simply allows himself to be shoved around, shoved into sheets that reek of Klingon.  
Compliance is survival and surviving another few hours means planning an escape, shedding this servitude.  
The Regent pulls at the chain on his collar, choking him. His eyes close and he catches the rustle of fabric. He's given enough slack to breathe but not nearly enough to throw the Regent off, to reach for the table of instruments and cram one down the Klingon's throat.  
Part of him regrets not dying on that horrible station. Those rebels weren't worth half this trouble.  
And there's a cool blade stabbing into the back of his knee, slicing his trousers, exposing him to the Klingon, who makes a low, growling laugh. Fingers find his slit, just barely damp from the torture, forcing their way in, fucking Garak roughly. And now he regrets not taking his own life before he'd been captured by this brute.  
His cheek burns and the welts on his back sting and he isn't quite sure which hurts worse as the Regent presses him into bed, face-down and nails clawing open the Cardassian's wounds.   
And there's teeth on his neck, his shoulders. Every bite sends a small rush of blood and Garak wonders if this is how he'll die: bleeding out in a Klingon's bed, bitten to death during sex and bruised and broken.  
The Klingon's cock stretches Garak's slit wide, too wide, painfully and Garak feels sticky in a bloody sort of way. And it keeps him from everting, which adds another layer of pain but each nudging of the Klingon's cock against his own makes Garak's breath hitch.  
He's not sure when he cums, if he cums at all, but there's deep darkness and a temporary relief from the pain and it's more welcome than any orgasm ever could be.

* * *

He wakes up to cold chains and even colder water thrown over him. Garak turns, still half-asleep and shivering as hard as his bonds will allow, to find the Regent's bumbling jailer watching him with wide eyes. After a long, quiet moment, they both realize the Regent's chained the Cardassian up nude, displayed like a prized and well-used _bat'leth_ in his quarters.   
"I hope you have a good reason for trying to kill me this early," Garak hisses.   
"I was supposed to rinse you off and send you to the brig," the Klingon explains, backing away as if Garak might lunge.   
"Could I get something to wear, at least."  
The Klingon shakes his head, wild mane swaying. "I was told to take you as you are."  
Garak huffs, tossing his head defiantly.   
Without another word, the Klingon sets into freeing Garak's ankles and wrists. Garak lunges for a knife, embedding it in the Klingon's thigh but he merely grunts and grabs Garak's throat, just above the collar, and Garak's can't breathe. Blood pounds in his ears and he hears his vertebrae creaking under the Klingon's hand.  
"Be a good pet."   
Then Garak's dropped, landing roughly on the hard floor, drinking in each gasp of air as if it might be his last. Which, knowing the Regent and his orders, it might be.  
The Klingon settles for kicking him in the ribs before tugging on the chain, sending Garak scurrying on all fours to avoid being choked again. So he decides to stay on all fours, even though it's humiliating and some of The Regent's crew stop to laugh and more than a few spit on him. He hears _petaQ_ hurled at him and some other choice names. It's the most Klingon he's heard in the course of the ten minutes it takes to get to the lift to the brig than he's heard spoken in his entire life.   
"You're meant to serve them," Garak's jailer explains. "Sexually."  
Garak tries his hardest not to make a face, but the idea of having to perform night after night and with the Klingon penchant for sexual violence, he finds it hard. "Those awful savages?"  
"And The Regent. And me."  
Garak wrinkles his nose at the very thought of being hauled up to The Regent's quarters again. He tries to stand, gain some equal footing with his jailer, but the Klingon yanks on his chain, sending Garak across the cramped lift. The Klingon rests a boot on Garak's neck, not hard enough to suffocate him, but enough to keep him docile.  
For now.  
Garak keeps his eyes open and counts the seconds, waiting for the lift to stop. When it does, the Klingon steps over him, pulling Garak along.  
He's pulled off balance, but does his best to try to keep up with his jailer.  
The brig is a cramped place that sends Garak's skin crawling and it smells exactly like a Klingon zoo would. Earthy and horrible, like he's about to be buried alive.  
And the only mark of similarity between Klingons and Cardassians—their favouring of dim spaces—sets Garak on edge.  
And the cells have actual bars, ones fashioned from metal and ones Garak can imagine swinging into The Regent's face. He'd expected the Klingons to be savage, cruel, bloodthirsty, even. But he's never anticipated technological backwardness.   
Or perhaps it's just for him. That makes Garak's blood boil under his crawling skin.  
The jailer nudges Garak with his boot, like he's afraid of the Cardassian.  
"I'm not a pet."  
"You're a slave," his jailer answers. This time the kick is hard, bruising his ribs and sending him into the cage whether he wanted to or not. "And you'll be treated as such. I'll bring you dinner."  
He doesn't say when and there's nothing in this tiny hole to give Garak any indication of the time. He gets up, walking right up to the bars and tells him, "See that you do. You've no idea what a hungry Cardassian will do."  
It sends the Klingon trembling, but he tries to mask it. And Garak can't help but smile at his little bluff. Wherever The Regent found that jailer, it's for the best.  
Garak settles into a corner, trying to sleep off some of his rougher treatment.

* * *

He's startled out of his dozing (and a wonderful dream about being back home on Cardassia with The Regent's head mounted on the wall) by a slam. He jumps, mind racing at the opportunity to try and escape, but finds his jailer and a metal bowl, something one would offer a riding hound.  
Without a word, the Klingon reaches through the bars and shoves the metal bowl toward Garak. The Cardassian peers inside, just for a second, and then looks at his jailer, brow ridges raised.  
"You don't want me to eat that."  
"Why not?" the Klingon asks, voice forcibly firm.   
"If I eat that, I'll be sick," Garak warns, coming closer to the bars. "You don't want that, do you?"  
" _Gagh_ is good for you," the Klingon says, still holding on of the bars of Garak's cage. "Makes you into a warrior."  
"Cardassians aren't the same brute-force idiots you are." Garak takes the Klingon's hand, pulling his fingers backwards until the air's full of a cracking sound. He pulls the Klingon's hand in before he can snatch it away, sinking teeth into the meat of the Klingon's palm tearing in a bloody show. He chews before spitting it back out. "We're a cunning race, you'll find."  
The Klingon twists just right and Garak lets him go. Torn between his bleeding hand and punishing the Cardassian, the Klingon decides his hand if of more importance and hurries off.   
Garak smiles, just a bit, and turns to the bowl of worms, considering the best way to go about eating them without vomiting.

* * *

He gets a new keeper, after that. Someone build tall and muscular and always carrying a device that looks like a zabu prod. Garak doesn't pay much attention to this new keeper aside from the few times he brings Garak _gagh_ and water. It's never enough to keep him properly full, but enough to keep him alive and the jailer seems to enjoy making Garak wait, pacing before the bars like a hound.  
He catches the name "W'Keeda" a few times when The Regent demands to know the state of the Cardassian. But since Garak's been put down here, he hasn't seen The Regent.  
W'Keeda and The Regent seem more interested in breaking him down mentally. Humiliating him and starving him into compliance. The zabu prod is never used on Garak. It's just the threat of pain that exists.  
So Garak decides to play along.  
When W'Keeda orders him away from the bars, he does. When W'Keeda wants to watch Garak eat like a starved and feral thing, the Cardassian plays his part.   
He stops eyeing W'Keeda's key openly, only catching furtive glances at it.  
He should win an award for playing such a role, Garak thinks to himself.  
But then the threats of pain become very real.   
"Against the wall, slave," W'Keeda orders in his firm way.  
Garak complies, moving toward the far wall where W'Keeda can watch his every movement, every twitch and hear everything.   
W'Keeda sets the bowl down, pushing it with one end of the prod just a bit.  
"Eat."  
Garak approaches slowly, the air humming with tension. As he kneels to eat the _gagh_ , a jolt of electricity send him jerking for just a moment before he collapses on his side, trying to collect the air electrocuted from his lungs.  
W'Keeda laughs, a low, rumbling sound. "Stupid slaves."  
Every time Garak approaches the bowl of slithering worms, the Klingon bares the prod. He catches Garak once, in the ribs, sending the Cardassian into a fit of jerking and tossing his head back.  
And this is worse than the first stage of humiliation, he thinks as the prod leaves his side but the current continues through him for a few seconds of aftershock.  
He simply refuses to eat, watching W'Keeda from out of the prod's reach.  
"You'll get so hungry, little snake," W'Keeda practically sings. "The Regent will be mad at me if I don't feed you."  
But Garak refuses to get close enough to be shocked again. He takes a step away from W'Keeda.  
"Not hungry? Oh well."  
And the bowl's removed from the cage, but Garak knows how to deal with this. He’s done it before and he can do it again.

* * *

The next three days are the same cat-and-mouse game. Garak is allowed one mouthful of _gagh_ before he is electrocuted with W'Keeda's prod. Any attempts to eat more than that are punished with the prod. But the Cardassian is allowed to drink as much water as he needs.   
W'Keeda takes a certain sadistic delight in his duties with the prod, always alert for any opening the Cardassian leaves.   
And three days of it leave Garak's scales singed, muscles still wired with the ghost of currents, every limb sore and his lungs feeling like they might collapse.  
But Garak learns, bides his time. He tries to hold out, tries not to give into what W'Keeda wants, which is the breaking down of Garak's defences, making him crack slowly.  
The three days are long and hard and physical abuse piled on top of mental torture wear Garak down. He's starved and sore and half the time he can't even sleep.  
He collapses and when W'Keeda applies the prod again, Garak welcomes death, knowing he'll have the last laugh.

* * *

He wakes up to a bowl full of _gagh_ and enough water to drown himself. Garak eats like he might forget how and only looks up when he hears the click of heels coming toward his cell.  
The female Klingon eyes him like he's her next meal, pacing like a starved and wild thing, eyes full of hunger and mane flowing like a veil, following her every movement. Garak gets up on his knees, near the bars of his cell, hands behind his back.  
She reached through the bars and grabs a fistful of his hair, spitting on him. "You're the plaything the Regent brought. How ugly."  
But she presses herself against the bars, grinding her hips against the metal.  
"You are made to serve, worm," she says. "So get serving."  
And he makes a move to adjust her armour with his hands, but she bashes his face against the bars. His nose is, decidedly, broken if the blood rushing down his face is any indication. She laughs, of course, finding great fun in his torment.  
"Use your teeth, idiot."  
And that's an order Garak finds to his own liking. He sinks his teeth into the flesh of her thigh, just like a Klingon would, and finds the earthy-metal taste of Klingon blood flooding his mouth.  
"They taught you well," she purrs. She presses her boot into his chest in an act of contortion Garak would never have thought possible for a Klingon, and shoves him across the cage. "Do they have poetry on that awful world of worms you crawled from?"  
"Only for beautiful things," Garak answers, slowly making his way back to her, "and you are . . . less than ideal."  
She spit on him, but she does it with a smile. "Worm."  
"Horrible savage."  
But she seems to like playing with him. He's even allowed to bite her again before she kicks him across the cage and leaves, probably to tend to her own work.  
It's almost admirable, for a Klingon woman.

* * *

She visits him again. He still has no sense of time, but he knows she's something better than solitary confinement and a zabu prod to the ribs.   
"You are a filthy thing," she says, looking Garak over. "And only I've touched you."  
It sounds like disgust, but Garak's become accustomed to her double-meanings and violence. He raises a brow ridge. "Are you my new keeper?"  
"I should be. What kind of slave can't even please his mistress of keep himself clean?" She leaves his field of view, returning with a bucket. "Come, worm."  
Garak obliges, trusting her.  
She pours ice-cold water over him, throwing it, really. It's violent the same way her hands in his hair or her kicks to his ribs are. "There."  
Garak shivers violently, never protesting. If he can trust her, then she can slip up, letting him free himself. "W'Keeda?"  
"Dead. Same as the one before him. You're a handful." She tosses her mane over her shoulder with a sort of haughtiness. "The Regent should pull your teeth from your skull or kill you, really."  
"But then who would serve the crew?"  
She grabs a handful of Garak's wet hair, forcing him to look up at her. "Your corpse. Klingons have no morals to keep us from being satisfied with our captives, be they dead or alive."  
And Garak feels a sort of warmth in his chest because that's the sort of bluff he can get used to, the threat that might get him off. He's suddenly grateful she's poured water over him.  
"But you're not nearly ready to serve anyone. Your mouth is disgraceful and you wouldn't know what to do with your hands." She kicks him, sends him across the cage. "You will answer to me from now on. You will call me Mistress."  
"Yes."  
"Yes what, _petaQ_?" Her hands rest on her hips, mouth set in a stubborn scowl.  
"Yes, Master," Garak says, smiling at her.  
"Don't smile, you worthless thing. Keep your head down or I'll skin you."  
He does because he likes her.  
"I'll train you properly."  
The cage opens and when Garak rises to try and run past her, he's grabbed by the chain. She kicks him over, yanking on the chain and making Garak choke.  
"I should kill you for your insolence," she says. She spits on him, into his open mouth. "But The Regent wants you trained, so trained you will be."  
The way she drags him is admirable and Garak can hardly wait to see what he has in store for him.

* * *

She's creative in a way Garak wouldn't usually credit Klingons.  
When he looks up at her, she forces him into a wicked collar that pierces his _chula_ and sends blood down his chest the moment he tries to look down. And he always looks down, the muscles of his neck tiring too quickly.  
When he speaks without her permission, she makes him recite Klingon poetry to her, whipping him bloody until he can pronounce the words correctly. And she makes him recite until his throat is raw and he loses the ability to speak, even if he wanted to, for days afterwards. Those sessions teach him to be quiet and anticipate the commands to speak.  
For shying away from pain and sex mingled together, he is deprived of almost every sensation. She broke his clavicle once while fucking him and when he shied from her, she blindfolded him, gagged him, kept him chained to feel nothing, and the room was so quiet he couldn't tell if he'd gone deaf or if this was one of her games.  
And when Kah'li—a name he's heard used infrequently but with the same dangerous weight as a _bat'leth_ —isn't using him or leaves to perform other duties, she ties and chains him into all sorts of interesting positions meant to exhaust him or, as she puts it, "turn him flexible and workable."  
She's the most sadistic thing he's had thus far and the worst part is he finds himself obeying simply because he likes her.  
It's insidious.

* * *

Kah'li looks over reports from a PADD held in one hand. Her other hand grips a fistful of Garak's hair, keeping his face pressed against her sex.   
The most he's ever seen of her exposed is her sex, her thighs, her hips, and her face. He's not allowed to see her completely nude, which makes Garak terribly frustrated. He's never considered Klingon women to be his preference, but Kah'li is like no other Klingon woman he's ever met. She controls him carefully, tactfully, sadistically.  
He pleases her obediently, tongue lapping at her, tasting the musky-sweetness of her. And perhaps he's grown accustomed to her scent, her taste, because he enjoys her, the punishments she puts him through. But to see her ignoring the work he expends on her pleasure is infuriating. He pulls away, challenging her quietly.  
"Did I tell you to stop?" she says, voice almost an icy calm.   
"No, Master."  
"Then why did you?"  
"You didn't seem to enjoy it." Garak pulls back, just a bit.  
For that, she pulls his hair, head back and throat exposed. Kah'li tosses her reading aside and pulls a knife from her breast, the blade pressing against Garak's pulse.   
"I don't know why we should bother with you. You are useless and fuck like a human," she growls. Her temper and her growling always make Garak eager for more of her, for the pain she brings. "Perhaps I can sell you to a Ferengi and let them do what they will to you."  
"Master."  
"Worm." A warning for him not to speak, to take the verbal abuse as he does with the physical. "I should gut you and feed your worthless flesh to The Regent's pet targs."  
Garak swallows, finding himself aroused, wet even, at the thought of her blade piercing him, slicing through his scales, skinning him alive. "Master."  
"Get back to work," she says, letting go of him completely. "You have much to learn before you're ready."  
He doesn't ask what for. He knows and she knows. The Regent's crew is restless, waiting for the Cardassian to break. He goes back to using his mouth on her sex, lapping at her again with a furious devotion.  
She flicks his _chufa,_ which makes him pause. "Use more teeth, you useless snake."  
Garak obliges, sinking his teeth deep into her thigh, drawing blood and the first moan of the night from Kah'li's throat.

* * *

He's blindfolded, but an experimental rotation of his wrist reveals he's free for the moment, though his knees ache and he knows she's chained him into kneeling. He wonders what sort of torture she has for him today. Perhaps she really will begin the long, slow process of skinning him alive for a new pair of gloves or maybe she's going to break all of his fingers one by one.   
The anticipation makes the pain worse, he knows, but she prefers to keep him on edge for as long as possible.  
The first touch is her gloved fingers running over his cheek, pausing at the corner of his mouth. Garak opens for her willingly.   
Cool metal is forced into his mouth, keeping his teeth apart, mouth held open. She fastens the gag in the back, metal edges biting into the corners of his mouth. It takes him a moment before he realise the purpose of this is not to keep him quiet, but to keep his mouth useful.   
He shudders at the thought.  
"If you bite, I will pull the teeth from your head and present your heart to The Regent," she hisses.  
Garak nods in understanding.  
He hears a second set of boots, the footsteps heavier. He perks up, skin alive with the anticipation of being touched.   
A hand, larger than Kah'li's, grabs his hair and before he can prepare himself, there's a cock shoved in his mouth, down his throat. Garak gags, tries breathing through his nose, but it's too sudden a shock. His gags seem to make his new tormentor groan in delight, each spasm of his throat pleasuring the Klingon's cock.   
"He's good."  
Kah'li huffs and Garak can imagine her tossing her mane with pride. "Of course. I broke him myself."  
Before Garak can make sense of the situation, the Klingon thrusts deeper, forcing Garak into a fresh bout of gagging around the large intrusion. He understands now why she refused to feed him for a whole day.  
Another cock presses against his left hand and Garak fists it clumsily. Kah'li makes a noise of disappointment, no doubt noting what Garak will need to be trained on next. But her disapproval only makes Garak want to do better and he blindly makes sense of every ridge on the shaft, how to press his thumb against the pointed tip and make that third Klingon groan.   
Kah'li doesn't praise him. Not that Garak expected her to openly.  
But the thought makes him wet. He considers everting, but that has been the one punishment he likes the least. Kah'li's method of dealing with him is to spend a day with her fingers buried in his slit, forcing his cock out for the whole day until he's sore and hates the idea of her stimulating him again.  
Another Klingon makes use of his right hand and Garak's less clumsy, though he's never been one to keep a rhythm. He alternates, paying attention to both cocks in his hands in his own way.  
The Klingon occupying his mouth cums first, a spray of thick, musky cum forced down his throat and Garak coughs as the Klingon pulls away, cum leaking from his open mouth. It's thick, the way kanar is thick, and intoxicating the way he's heard those Orion feral women are. He's not sure if he wants to swallow more of it or gag.   
Not that he's given much of a choice when the Klingon that's been occupying Garak's left hand decides to make use of his mouth. It's easier to focus when he's only got one hand to worry about, how to stroke, pause, touch. And the Klingon using his mouth hardly needs any of Garak's own activity.  
But Kah'li presses her gloved fingertips between Garak's shoulder blades. He's forgotten all about her presence, but the simple touch is like flipping a switch. Garak sucks cock with determination, wanting to please his mistress, earn her praise, bring honour to her job of handling him.  
And the simple hum she makes is tinted with pride. He swallows without hesitation, enjoying the feeling of a Klingon cumming down his throat.   
And the third, groaning from Garak's attentive strokes, releases a thick stream of semen over Garak's shoulder, burning against his neck ridges.   
Kah'li's guests take their time getting dressed, stopping to make small talk about duty, about the Regent, about anything it seems. It seems like forever. But they do leave, laughing in a roar of a good mood, a service Garak is proud to have provided. Off to their duties, Garak thinks, tilting his head back to keep from drooling cum everywhere.  
And slowly he comes out of the trace his mistress has put him in. He becomes aware of the heat on his neck slowly fading, turning tacky and cold. His slit is wet but drying, making him equally sticky and with the uncomfortable half-realized need to evert. And his arms ache, jaw sore. He feels nauseous from having nothing but Klingon cum.  
"Filthy animal," Kah'li purrs, running a hand through Garak's hair, the leather of her gloves cool against his scalp. "But you've done well."  
Her steps almost carry a bounce in the military-stride she uses, slight heels clicking on the metal floor. She's singing Klingon opera under her breath, one Garak could never understand or pronounce. Something about honour in sadism, profit in slaving.   
She comes back only to pour cold water slowly over Garak, into his open mouth and forcing him to swallow or drown, over his neck, over his back. It's a deliberate pouring meant to prolong the near-icy temperature, the cold slowing Garak to compliance.   
And she lets him dry on his own, offering nothing to aid the process, which only makes Garak shiver in the lower temperature of her quarters. She scratches at his scalp, as though he's a pet, and then hurries out of her quarters.   
It's torture to wait for himself to dry, for her to return, to try and feel any stimuli.

* * *

Some nights, she rests her boots across his back, crossed at the ankles. Sometimes, she places the weight on the back of is neck, meta collar digging into his flesh and head bowed in subservience.  
But it's a comfortable weight.  
She reads often and speaks little on the nights she rests her boots on the back of his neck. He never questions her, simply holding himself prideful, as any self-respecting Cardassian would.  
He takes some small pride and comfort in knowing the scars on her thighs, on her hips, the small nicks around her knees, are all his doing.  
But he finds himself more and more lethargic, sluggish. He masks it, but the toll of days of servitude and hours of being tied in extremely taxing positions keep him from holding his head up some nights.  
He loses all appetite and that seems to worry his master more than his fatigue.  
"Slave," she says softly. "Elim?"  
He raises his head to look at her. The medic she's brought makes Garak laugh, a dry and bitter sound. Rage fires up in her dark eyes and Garak knows she has half a mind to flay him, or worse.   
"Shedding," he explains before the medic can touch him. "A few days, some oil to help the old scales off, and I'll be alright."  
It strikes him that he's been here a while since he rarely sheds. He's not a hatchling having a growth spurt every other week. It's been months, years maybe. He can hardly keep track of time the same way he can hardly keep his eyes open now.  
Kah'li's gloved hand on his face his gentle, caring, if Garak is so bold. It's the unspoken command to rest and he does, falling into a black, dreamless slumber.  
When he comes to, the humidity has risen in her quarters. He's chained to the post in the centre of her quarters. A blanket has been draped over him, though it catches on the old scales, pulling them free as he pulls the material off him.  
"My Lady?"  
She steps into the room, a PADD in one hand. She looks up at Garak, worry etched into the hard lines of her face. "You are unwell."  
"Not terribly sick," Garak says, content to lay on the hard floor just a bit longer, reabsorb the body heat he's left on the hard metal. "Just tired."  
"The men think you are contagious."  
"I'm not." And his eyes are already closed, Garak settling into a low, rumbling purr.  
He hears her cross the room over his own purring. She sinks into her armchair, something the length of the chain will allow him to crawl to.   
"Come."  
He rose lazily, not liking the idea of moving from his spot. But he comes to her obediently, unable to put up any verbal protests aside from a low, wordless grumble. Her gloves hands cup his face, forcing him to look up at her. Her eyes fill with an infinite amount of warmth and care. From within her cloak, she pulls a bottle of oil. For the first time, she removes her gloves and Garak looks away, as though he's seeing something he shouldn't.   
But her hands are warm, the oil cooler than her skin as she works it over him. Garak sets into purring again, content to allow her to take control, content to be cared for like a pet.  
He hands glide over every inch of her skin, applying, perhaps, too much oil over his scales, the loose old skin coming off easily. He moves with her touches, never wanting his mistress to lower herself to the floor.   
And once he's been oiled, Garak waits patiently for his mistress to clean her hands of the excess oil, the old scales. Once she returns to her armchair, settling in to read reports, Garak rests his head on her knee, dozing lightly.   
He looks away from the blur of brown of his mistress' ungloved hands.

* * *

She loans him to the men, who take delight in battering Garak before fucking him. He's had bones broken, bruises form, ribs cracked. On more than one occasion, his arm's been pulled from the socket. Every time a clavicle gets broken, they force bloodwine down his throat, shoving him around until he's not sure which way is up.  
And Klingon men are impatient. They surround him, fucking his mouth, forcing his cock back into his slit and fucking him there, fucking his ass roughly. And whenever he's full, they make use of his hands. Some are less content to be shoved to the sidelines, jerking themselves off while they can only watch. Others like the voyeurism, love being able to coat Garak in a "healthy" coat of semen.  
He's led to these lovely events by his mistress, on a chain. He leaves on the chain, when he can walk.  
Kah'li is always less than pleased when they return Garak broken. His medical care is her responsibility and she hates having to wash him before being able to tend to him.  
She sets every bone herself, uses the dermal regenerator on his scales by herself, puts limbs back in their sockets by herself. It's the limbs coming loose that makes her the most upset.   
He prefers when she loans him to the Klingon women. They're more violent then the men, but their violence is controlled and enjoyable. He's allowed to retaliate as well, putting up a show of a fight before allowing himself to submit.   
The bruises the Klingon women leave, he begs his mistress not to heal right away, wanting time to savour those moments. And the Klingon women manage to make him cum, sometimes more than once, even if he protests, even if he's exhausted, even if he's sore beyond belief.  
And they call his dick cute, which is humiliating in an absolutely endearing way.

* * *

"Elim, you would never disgrace me?" Kah'li asks. Her boots rest of Garak's thighs, heavy and digging into his scales.  
"Never, my lady," he tells her.  
She seems troubled, but it is not his place to ask. He nips at her thigh, playful and gentle, asking for permission. It's like she's seeing through him.  
"The Regent wants to send you after the Bajoran."   
Garak perks up, mind racing with a million escape plans, a hundred ways to torture the Intendant, ten ways to make Kah'li proud of him. And he's not sure which route he wants to pursue the most.  
"He wants her alive." Kah'li pressed her boot between his clavicles, keeping his mouth distanced from her sex, keeping Garak from getting too distracted. "You know the price of failure."  
"The price is mine and yours to share," Garak answers. "Death."  
Kah'li nods. "The price of success lies with me."  
"Fame, honour, more work as a slaver."   
It's a joke that she misses, still drowning in the murk of her thoughts. She relents, leg curled around Garak's shoulder, drawing his mouth closer to her sex.  
As he services her with tongue and teeth, Garak's unsure if he wants to escape.

* * *

She dresses in her gauntlets and breastplate, the insignia of her house gleaming in the low light of her quarters. Trousers cover the work Garak's left on her thighs, hiding the teeth marks and scars of his service to her. She drapes the cloak over herself, adding a more intimidating bulk to her figure and lines of authority to her silhouette. She selects boots with a higher heel, adding height, not that she needs it for striking fear into her slave.  
She's stunning, just as stunning as the day she picked him from the brig, like a stray from a back alley breeder.  
Kah'li attaches the chain to Garak's collar. He's been washed--polished, more like--and she braids his hair, longer now, ornately, like a Klingon would. He's walked down quiet halls, an isolated route, and Garak knows the way without being told.  
They're going to see The Regent.   
He follows her like a pet, quiet and easy, unassuming and submissive. The Regent is unforgiving and Garak's sole concern is his mistress, her honour and her safety.  
The door slides open and she nudges Garak forward. He doesn't look up, doesn't blur the complicated line between them. Instead, he crawls forward like a good slave is supposed to.  
"You've done a good job with him," The Regent says, looking down at the Cardassian. "He's almost attractive."  
"Thank you, Sir." Her voice rings strong with pride.   
"But he's still not my type."  
Kah'li laughs, rough and warm sound that eases the nervous tension from Garak's body. The Cardassian smiles, just a bit, even though he knows he's the punchline.  
"He's obedient?"  
"I have him bent entirely to my will," Kah'li answers. "I have no doubts about my slave's ability to satisfy you."  
The Regent leaves a heavy silence, one that makes Kah'li squirm. It takes every ounce of willpower for Garak to avoid looking directly at her. He folds his shaking hands in his lap, swallowing down the nervousness that gathers deep in his stomach.  
If the Regent wants, he could break Garak's neck or take a _bat'leth_ and cleave his head from his shoulders.   
"Dress him. Give him a shuttle. He is to go alone and bring her to me. Alive. Is this understood?"  
"Clearly," Kah'li answers.   
Garak offers a subtle nod of his own, determined to repay the Intendant for every ounce of cruelty that's been heaped on him.   
"Come, _petaQ_ ," she says.   
Garak follows, slow and composed. Kah'li's steps are heavy, she breathes a gentle sigh as they leave the Regent's quarters.   
On the lift, Garak can hear the smile in her voice. "You will not fail me, my pet."  
"I promise," he tells her. "The Intendant will be within your grasp."  
"I think she's the Regent's type," Kah'li admits. "But she needs to know her place, be broken in."

* * *

Once they are in her quarters, Kah'li kicks Garak over, rolls him onto his back. She grinds her boot against his slit. It creates a delightful pressure that makes Elim groan softly, lubricant gathering in heavy drops under the pressure of her boot.   
"You will come back to me."  
"Always, always, always, my lady," Garak says softly, looking at her neck instead of meeting her intense glare.  
"And you will do everything to honour me and my name."  
"Of course, yes."  
She pulls on the collar itself, dragging Garak up and to her bed. She throws him onto her bed, Garak sinking into the thick furs draped across her bed. It is an honour to be allowed on the furniture.  
And before Garak can be too surprised, Kah'li strips out of her trousers desperately, cloak dropped to the floor, gauntlets set on the table next to the bed. She doesn't remove her breastplate, not that Garak expects her to.   
He's become familiar with her sex, the muscles of his tongue already aching at the thought of servicing her. But the Klingon has other plans, her fingers tracing the edges of Garak's slit, where scale gives way to soft, slick flesh. She grins, enjoying the slow exploration of Garak's anatomy, teasing him to the point of pain, the pressure and need to evert heavier than her straddling him.  
"My lady."  
"In a moment."  
And he bites his lip bloody with need. But she's never been gentle, not really. Sadism is her favourite way to play with him and Garak thinks of every flogging he's received under her care, ever bite and bruise.  
"I want to be hurt," he tells her. "Only ever by you, my lady."  
Kah'li's eyes flash with something cruel and warm and Garak surrenders, head tilted back to display his throat. She sinks her teeth into his ridge, marking and her face rises into his view with blood over her lower lip, her chin. The ends of her hair brush the skin over his clavicles and he wants nothing more than for her to break both of them, something he's come to understand is good luck for couples.  
And he does love her.   
Her fingers, buried in his slit, encourage his cock out, the bright flesh glistening fuchsia in the dim lights.   
"So pretty," Kah'li says. "So soft."  
He's not quite sure how to reply. Klingon women always seem to have some fascination for his lack of Klingon ridges, the moisture that beads at the tip, glistens along the shaft.   
But Kah'li grinds herself against him and Garak finds himself lost in pleasure. She claws at him, scratching open old scars, leaving fresh wounds in the wake of her nails. Her teeth mark his neck, all of his throat bruised and bloody. It's enough to drive him mad.   
And she rides him, slow at first, as if trying to figure out if Cardassian anatomy is truly right for her own. She gyrates her hips just right, slamming her hips against Garak's in a contest of bone density and force. She wins, of course, bruising Garak as she draws each groan from his throat, each moan from his lips.   
When she kisses him, it tastes of his own blood and war.  
She fucks him bruised and battered. She fucks him sore and raw. She fuck him tired. She fucks him past the point he thinks he can withstand.  
He's not allowed to cum inside her. She manipulates him, forcing Garak to cum on himself, hot and humiliating. Each time he cums, he looks up for her approval and finds it in abundance.  
Her hands are rough with him and he does, by the end, break a clavicle. Then a couple of ribs, she pulls a blade from her drawer, carves into him with the mark of her own house which makes him cum without question, then she breaks his other clavicle.   
Garak could never ask for any greater gift.

* * *

She drinks bloodwine in a different way, he notices, trying to muster up the energy to accept her offer of a proper shower. Kah'li is quiet, distant. Garak doesn't break the silence, simply content to share a space with her, have some form of equality, if he's allowed to be so bold as to call it that.  
Her glass empty, she looks over, her stare cold. Even her voice hardens into a command. "Shower."  
As much as he'd be content to lay there, Garak rises from her bed, showering himself clean. It's the first time he's had more than just cold water dumped over him.   
She tends to his wounds in silence, pausing when all but his clavicles and her insignia have been healed. She presses fingers into the broken bones before heaving them over. But the new brand, the one etched into his skin, she makes sure will heal but scar.  
"Come back to me."  
"Yes, my lady."  
"Bring my house honour."  
"Of course."  
She throws a set of armour at him. Garak dresses in silence.   
Garak's only clothing , Cardassian armour and a Gul's rank, has been taken and burnt. What little could not be burnt was disposed of. The Klingon armour suits him, though. It's free enough in the neckline, not nearly as constricting as the collar is. He looks in the mirror, tracing the raw spot where the collar has clamped around his neck for so long, the skin and scales aching in the air of his mistress' quarters. Touching the bruising makes him recoil, hissing as pain burns through him, sharp and white-hot.  
Kah'li turns away from Garak, retreating to the safety of the reports on her PADD and a new glass of bloodwine. She does not see him out of her quarters. She does not see him to the shuttle.


End file.
